Kitabı oku: «The Queen's Lady»

The Queen’s Lady
Shannon Drake

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Joan Hammond, Judy DeWitt

and Kristi and Brian Ahlers, with love and

thanks for always being so wonderfully supportive

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I: Homecoming

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

PART II: The Queen Triumphant

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PART III: Passion and Defeat

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

PROLOGUE

Before the fire

GWENYTH HEARD THE SOUND of footsteps and the clang of metal, and knew the guards were on their way to her cell.

Her time had come.

Despite knowing since the beginning that she was doomed, despite her determination to die defiant, scornful and with dignity, she felt her blood grow cold and congeal in her veins. Easy to be brave before the time, but now, faced with the reality of the moment, she was terrified.

She closed her eyes, seeking strength.

At least she could stand on her own two feet. She would not have to be dragged out to the pyre like so many pathetic souls who had been “led” into confession. Those who had seen the evil of their ways through the thumbscrews, the rack or any of the other methods used to encourage a prisoner to talk, could rarely walk on their own. She had given her interrogators what they had wanted from the beginning, standing tall and, she hoped, making a mockery of her judges through her sarcastic confession. She had saved the Crown a great deal of money, since the monsters who tortured prisoners to draw out the truth had to be paid for their heinous work.

And she had saved herself the ignominy of being dragged—broken, bleeding and disfigured—to the stake.

Another clank of metal, and footsteps drawing closer.

Breathe, she commanded herself. She could and would die with dignity. She was whole, and she had to be grateful that she could walk to her execution, having seen what they were capable of doing. But the terror….

She stood as straight as a ramrod, not from pride but because she had grown so cold it was as if she were made of ice, unable to bend. Not for long, though, she mocked herself. The flames would quickly thaw her with their deep and deadly caress. Instead of adding to the agony of the punishment, further torturing the doomed and broken souls delivered to their kiss, the flames were meant to see that such damned creatures were destroyed completely, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Before the flames were ignited, the condemned was usually strangled. Usually.

But when the judges were infuriated, the flames might be lit too quickly, without allowing the executioner time to hasten the end and lessen the agony. She had made enemies. She had spoken up for others; she had fought for herself. Her death was unlikely to be quick.

She’d made too many enemies, and that had led to her conviction and impending death. It had been easy to put the pieces together—after her arrest.

There were many who believed in the devil, believed that witchcraft was the source of all evil in the world—including the queen Gwenyth had served with such loyalty. They believed that mankind was weak, that Satan came in the night, that pacts were signed in blood, and curses and spells cast upon the innocent. They thought confession could save the eternal soul, that excruciating torture and death were the only way back into the arms of the Almighty. In fact, they were in the majority, for now; in Scotland and most of Europe, the practice of witchcraft was a capital crime.

She was not guilty of witchcraft, and her judges knew it. Her crime was one of loyalty, of love for a queen who, with her reckless passions, had damned them all.

Not that the cause mattered, nor the sham of a trial and the cruelty of the judgment against her. She was about to die. That was the only thing that mattered now.

Would she falter? What would happen when she felt the scorching touch of the first flames? Would she scream? Of course she would; she would be in agony.

She had been right and righteous.

Little good that did now.

And beyond the fear of death and pain, she was sorry. She hadn’t realized how much she had traded away in adhering to her ideals. The pain of what she was leaving behind had become a ragged, bleeding wound in her heart, burning as if salt had been poured on the tender flesh. Nothing they were about to do to her body could be as heinous as the agony tearing at her soul. For once she was gone….

What would happen to Daniel?

Nothing, surely. God could not be so cruel. The trial, the execution…they were meant to silence her and her alone. Daniel was safe. He was with those who loved him, and surely his father would allow no harm to befall him. No matter what she had done or how she had defied him.

The footsteps came closer, stopped just outside her cell. For a moment she was blinded by the light of the lantern they had brought with them into the darkness of the dungeon. She could tell there were three of them, but nothing more. Then her vision cleared and for a moment her heart took flight.

He was there.

Surely he could not mean for her life to end this way. Despite his anger, his warnings, his threats, he couldn’t have intended this. He had told her often enough—accurately, she had to admit—that she was far too like the queen she had served, rashly speaking her mind and blind to the dangers inherent in such honesty. But still, could he really be a part of this charade, this spectacle of political injustice and machination? He had held her in his arms, given her a brief, shimmering glimpse of how the heart could rule the mind, how passion could destroy sanity, how love could sweep away all sense.

They had shared so much. Too much.

And yet…

Men could betray one another as quickly as the wind shifted. For their own lives, for the sake of position and wealth, property and prosperity. Was he indeed a part of this travesty? For she had not been mistaken.

Rowan was here in all his grandeur. His wheaten hair was golden in the flickering torchlight, and he epitomized nobility in every way—kilted in his colors, a sweeping, fur-trimmed cape adding to the breadth of his swordsman’s shoulders. He stood before her now, flanked by her judge and her executioner, chiseled features grim and condemning, eyes as dark as coal, cold and disdainful. Long fingers of ice reached up and gripped her heart. How foolish she had been to believe he had come to her rescue.

He had not come to help her but to further condemn her. He was not immune to the political machinations of the day. Like so many of the nobility, with skills honed through years of bloodshed, he was adept at straddling a wall, then landing on the winning side in battle, whether on the field or in the halls of government.

She stared at him without moving, the other men invisible to her. She forced herself to ignore her own filthy and disheveled state—clothing torn and damp, crusted with the dirt and mold of her dungeon cell. She refused to allow herself to falter beneath his stare. Despite the rags that clung to her now, she remained still and regal, determined to end her life with grace. He watched her, his scorching blue eyes so dark with condemnation that they appeared to her like stygian pits, a glimpse into the hell into which she would find herself cast once she had breathed her last in this life and endured the final agony of the fire.

She met his look with scorn, barely aware that the judge was reading the accusation and the sentence, informing her that the time had come.

“Burned at the stake until dead…ashes cast to the wind…”

She didn’t move, didn’t blink, simply stood quite still, with her head held high. She realized that Reverend Martin had come up behind the others. She was almost amused to see that they had sent their esteemed lapdog to try to force her into abject terror and a renewed confession, even at the stake. After all, if she were to assure the crowd that she was indeed the devil’s pawn, guilty of all manner of horrors, then the whispers that she was innocent, a victim of a political struggle, would not rise to become shouts that stirred resistance the length and breadth of the country.

“Lady Gwenyth MacLeod, you must confess before the crowds, and your death will go easy,” the rector said. “Confess and pray now, for with your deepest repentance, our great Father in Heaven may well see fit to keep you from an eternity in the very bowels of hell.”

She couldn’t tear her eyes from Rowan, who appeared so tall and indomitable among the others, though he was still watching her with such loathing. She prayed that her own disgust outshone the fear in her eyes.

“Take care, reverend,” she said softly. “I stand condemned, and if I speak now before the crowd, I will say that I am guilty of nothing. I will not confess to a lie before the crowd, else my Father in Heaven would abandon me. I go to my death, and on to Heaven, because the good Lord knows I am innocent, and that you are using His name to rid yourselves of a political enemy. It is you, I fear, who will long rot in hell.”

“Blasphemy!”

She was stunned, for it was Rowan who shouted out the word.

The barred door of her cell was flung wide with terrible violence. Before she knew it, he had seized hold of her, the fingers of one hand threaded cruelly through her hair, forcing her to stare up into his eyes, powerless to escape the touch of his other hand against her cheek.

“She must not be allowed to speak before any crowd. She knows her soul is bound for hell, and she will try only to drag others down into Satan’s rancid hole along with her,” Rowan said, his voice rough with hatred and conviction. “Trust me, for I know too well the witchery of her enchantment.”

How could such words fall from his lips? Once he had sworn to love her forever. Before God, he had vowed his love.

Her heart shattered at the thought that he had come not only to bear witness to her agony but to be a part of it.

His hand was large, his fingers long and strangely gentle, despite the fact that he was so accustomed to wielding a sword. She recalled with renewed pain how those fingers had once reached for her only to stroke with the greatest tenderness. And his eyes…eyes that had gazed at her with such delight, such amusement, even anger at times, but most of all with a deep, shattering passion that touched her soul as she could never be touched in the flesh.

Now they were nothing but dark, brutal.

As he stared at her, held her defenseless, he moved, and she realized that he was holding something. It was, she saw, a small glass vial, and he held it to her lips as he bent closer and whispered for her ears alone, “Drink this. Now.”

She stared at him blankly, knowing that she had no choice, and almost smiled, because she saw the flicker of…something in those eyes that were so blue a color that they defied both sea and sky. She saw desperation and something more. Suddenly she recognized what it was. He was playing a part. He had not forgotten her.

“For the love of God, drink this now,” he said.

She closed her eyes and drank.

In an instant, the room began to spin, and she realized that there had been mercy in him, after all, some memory of the sweeping passions they had shared, for he had given her poison to spare her the searing agony of the flames devouring her flesh, roaring until she was nothing but ash cast into the wind.

“She’s Satan’s bitch! She seeks to make a mockery of us all.” Rowan growled as she felt his hands tighten around her throat.

He wanted them to think that he had strangled her not as an act of mercy, but to keep her silent before the crowd.

Darkness began to encroach upon her vision, and a numbness invaded her limbs. She could no longer stand, and she sank against him, grateful that she would be dead before she was consumed by the fire.

And yet, in those last moments, she raged against the agonizing truth that the man she had once trusted, had loved above life itself, with whom she had shared ecstasy, known paradise, should be the one to take her life.

She saw his eyes again, bright like blue flame, and wondered if those fiery beacons would follow her even unto death.

Her lips moved. “Bastard,” she told him.

“I shall meet you in hell, lady,” he replied, his voice a whisper, and yet, like the fire in his eyes they would surely follow her into eternity.

Was there a smile curving his lips? Was he mocking her, even as she died? Her vision fading, she looked into his eyes for confirmation and saw both sorrow and something more, as if he were trying to convey something to her, something the others must not see.

For as long as she could, she continued to meet his eyes, trying to see all that was in them and to convey her own message to him.

Daniel…

She wanted to say his name, but she dared not. She knew—knew—that he would love their son, that Daniel would never want for anything. Rowan would see to that. Unlike her, he would never fall prey to the vicissitudes of power. He had always been a statesman; his enemies never underestimated his strength—or his popularity.

The darkness closed in more fully around her, yet she felt no pain, wishing she had learned the lessons of statesmanship more fully.

That the queen had learned them, as well.

She wondered if she, like Mary, had given way too often to passion and her own convictions, her own definitions of right and wrong. Had there been a better way to stand her ground, to help the woman who even now knew she was in grave peril? The queen, too, might well lose her life; she had already been forced to abandon everything that made life worth living.

How could she have known? How could any of them have known? It had begun with such power and grandeur, such a beautiful and glorious dream. Even as the light faded, she remembered how it had shone once, so long ago.

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

August 19, Year of Our Lord 1561

“WHO IS THAT?” one of the maids whispered, hovering behind Queen Mary as they arrived, earlier than expected, at Leith. Gwenyth wasn’t sure who had spoken; Mary, Queen of Scots, had left her native land as a child with four ladies-in-waiting, all of them also named Mary: Mary Seton, Mary Fleming, Mary Livingstone and Mary Beaton. Gwenyth liked them all very much. They were all charming and sweet. Each had her individual personality traits, but they were known collectively as “the Marys” or “the queen’s Marys,” and sometimes it seemed as if they had become one collective person, as now, when Gwenyth wasn’t sure who had spoken.

They were all—including the queen—watching the shore, their eyes on the contingent awaiting them. The queen’s beautiful dark eyes seemed, to Gwenyth, as misty as the day itself.

Gwenyth didn’t think the queen had heard the question, until suddenly she replied. “Rowan. Rowan Graham, Lord of Lochraven. He visited France with my half brother, Lord James, some months ago.”

Gwenyth had heard the name. Rowan Graham was considered to be one of the most powerful nobles in Scotland. She seemed to recall that there was some strange tragedy connected with him, but she didn’t know what it was. She also knew that he had a reputation for speaking boldly and having the personal power and political strength to assure he was heard.

She sensed at that moment that this man was destined to haunt her life. He was impossible to miss, standing beside the queen’s half brother and regent, Lord James Stewart. Mary herself was tall, at five feet and eleven inches, taller than most of the men who served her. James himself was not as tall, but even if he had been taller than the queen, the man by his side would have towered above him in the mist that shrouded the land. The light was thin, but what there was of it gilded his wheat-gold hair, turning him into a golden lord, a warrior knight, akin to the Viking raiders of long ago. He was clad in the colors of his clan, blues and greens and, despite the fashionable raiment of the group assembled to greet the returning queen, he was the man to whom eyes turned.

Lochraven, Gwenyth thought. A Highland holding. Even in Scotland, the Highlanders were considered a race unto themselves. Gwenyth knew Scotland better than her queen, and she knew that a Highland lord could be a dangerous man, for she was from the Highlands herself, and very aware of the fierce power of the clan thanes. Rowan Graham was a man to be watched.

Not that the queen had a reason to fear any man in Scotland. Mary had been asked to return home, but there were things Gwenyth knew that the queen did not. Just a year ago, Protestantism had become the official religion in Scotland, and with fanatical men—persuasive men—such as John Knox preaching in Edinburgh, the queen’s devotion to the Catholic faith could place her in danger. The thought made Gwenyth angry; Mary’s intent was to let people worship as they chose. Surely the same courtesy should be extended to the queen.

“Home. Scotland.” Mary murmured the two words as if trying, in her own mind, to make them synonymous.

Gwenyth was startled from her own thoughts and looked at her sovereign and friend worriedly. She herself was delighted to return home. Unlike many of the queen’s ladies, she had been gone but a short time, only a year. Mary had left her home before the age of six. The Queen of Scotland was far more French than Scottish. When they had left France, Mary had stood at the rail of their ship for a long time, tears in her eyes, repeating, “Adieu, France.”

For a moment Gwenyth felt a surge of resentment on behalf of Scotland. She loved her homeland. There was nothing as beautiful as the rocky coast, with its shades of gray, green and mauve in spring and summer turning to a fantasy of white come winter. And she loved her country’s rugged castles, a match for the steep crags of the landscape. But perhaps she wasn’t being fair to Mary. The queen had been away for a long time. It couldn’t help that the French themselves considered Scotland a land where barbarians still roamed, possessed of nothing that could compare with the sophistication of their own country.

Mary was barely nineteen and a widow. No longer Queen of France but ruler of the country that was her birthright, a country she hardly knew.

The queen smiled at those around her. “We have won through,” she said with forced cheer.

“Yes,” agreed Mary Seton. “Despite all those wretched threats from Elizabeth.”

There had been a certain sense of nervousness when they had sailed, since Queen Elizabeth had not responded to their request for safe passage. Many in France and Scotland had feared that the English queen intended to waylay and capture her cousin. There had been a terrifying moment when they had been stopped on their journey by English ships. However, the English crews had merely saluted, and their vessels, other than those in Mary’s immediate party, had been inspected for pirates. Lord Eglington had been detained, but he had been assured of safe conduct after interrogation. At Tynemouth, Mary’s horses and mules had been confiscated, with promises of a safe return once proper documents were obtained.

“This is quite exciting,” Mary Seton said, indicating the tall Scotsman.

The queen looked out at the shore again, staring at the man in question. “He is not for you,” she said simply.

“Perhaps there are more like him,” Mary Livingstone said lightly.

“There are many like him,” Gwenyth said. They all turned to stare at her, and she flushed. “Scotland is known for birthing some of the finest warriors in the world,” she said, upset with herself for sounding so defensive.

“I vow we will have peace,” Queen Mary said, her gaze still on the shore, then she shivered slightly.

It was not the cold, Gwenyth thought, that caused the shiver. She knew that Mary was thinking that France was a far grander country than Scotland, offering far more comfortable accommodations along with its warmer weather. Much of the known world, and certainly the French themselves, considered the country to be the epitome of art and learning and felt that Scotland had been blessed to be tied to such a great power by marriage. In France, Mary had known the finest of everything. Gwenyth feared that the queen would be disappointed by the amenities her homeland offered.

Cheers went up from the shore, as Mary offered a radiant smile. Despite their early arrival after five days at sea, a good-sized crowd had mustered. “Curiosity,” Mary whispered to Gwenyth, a dry note in her voice.

“They’ve come to honor their queen,” Gwenyth protested.

Mary merely smiled and waved; radiant, she stepped from the ship, to be greeted first by her half brother James and then the milling court around him. The people were shouting joyously. Perhaps they had come out of nothing more than curiosity, but they were impressed now, as well they should be. Mary had never forgotten her Scots tongue; she spoke it fluently, with no trace of an accent. Her voice was clear, and she was not only beautiful—tall, stately and slender—but she moved with an unmistakably regal grace.

Gwenyth stood slightly behind the queen and Lord James. The towering blond man, Lord Rowan, slipped past her, bending to whisper in Lord James’s ear. “It’s time to move on. She’s done well. Let’s not take a chance that the mood will turn.”

When he moved to retreat, Gwenyth caught his eyes and she knew her own were indignant. He wasn’t, however, cowed in the least by her fury; instead was amused. His lips twitched, and Gwenyth felt her anger deepen. Mary of Scotland was a caring queen. True, she was young, and she had grown up in France, but since the death of her young husband—not just the King and her marriage partner, but her dear friend since childhood—Mary had demonstrated a firm grasp of statesmanship. That this man should doubt her in any way was nothing less than infuriating. And, Gwenyth decided, traitorous.

Soon they were all mounted, ready to ride to Holyrood Palace, where they would dine while the queen’s rooms were prepared. Gwenyth sighed softly. This homecoming would be a good thing. The people would continue to rally around Mary. Meanwhile, Gwenyth herself was content simply to revel in the familiarity of the truest home she had ever known. Though the day was a bit foggy, even what some might call dismal, the gray and mauve skies were as much a part of Scotland’s wild beauty as the rugged landscape itself.

“At the least,” one of the young Marys said, “it seems that Mary will be adored and honored here. Even if it isn’t France,” she added sadly.

Gwenyth was dismayed to feel a strange chill as they rode through Leith. There was nothing to cause her such discomfort, she assured herself. People were cheering the queen’s passage with great enthusiasm. She had no reason for uneasiness.

“Why the frown?”

She turned, startled, to see that Rowan Graham had moved up and was riding at her side—and regarding her with amusement.

“I am not frowning,” she said.

“Really? And to think I had imagined you might have the intelligence to worry about the future despite the fanfare.”

“Worry about the future?” she said indignantly. “Why should I worry that the concerns of the world might impose themselves upon a queen?”

He stared forward, a strange look of both amusement and distance in his eyes. “A Catholic queen has suddenly come home to rule a nation that has wholeheartedly embraced Protestantism in the last year.” He turned back to her. “Surely that is cause for concern?”

“Queen Mary’s half brother, the Lord James, has assured her that she may worship as she chooses,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said, and laughed aloud, which she thought quite rude.

“Would you deny the queen her right to worship God?” she inquired. “If so, perhaps you’d be best off returning to the Highlands, my lord,” she said sweetly.

“Ah, such fierce loyalty.”

“No more than you, too, owe your queen,” she snapped.

“How long have you been gone, Lady Gwenyth?” he asked softly in return.

“A year.”

“Then such pretense on your part is either foolish or you are sadly not as well-read or intelligent as I had imagined. You speak of loyalty, but surely you know loyalty is something to be earned. Perhaps your young queen does indeed deserve such a fierce defense, but she must prove herself to her people, having been gone so long. Have you been gone so long that you have forgotten how it is here? That there are parts of this land where the monarchy and government mean nothing, and devotion is given first and foremost to one’s own clan? When there is no war to fight, we fight among ourselves. I am a loyal man, my lady. Fiercely loyal to Scotland. Young Mary is our queen, and as such, she has not just my loyalty but every shred of strength I can provide, both my sword arm and my life. But if she wishes to gain real control as a monarch, she will have to come to know her people and make them love her. For if they love her…no battle in her name will be too great. History has proven us reckless, far too ready to die for those with the passion to lead us into battle. Time will tell if Mary is one such.”

Gwenyth stared at him, incredulous. It was a heroic speech, but she sensed something of a threat in it, as well. “You, my lord, haven’t the manners of a Highland hound,” she returned, fighting for control.

He didn’t lose his temper, only shrugged. She was further irritated when once again he laughed out loud. “A year in France has made you quite high and mighty, has it not? Have you forgotten that your own father hailed from the Highlands?”

Was that a subtle rebuke? Her father had died on the battlefield with James V, though he’d not left such a great legacy as the king. He’d been Laird MacLeod of Islington Isle, but the tiny spit of land just off the high tors barely afforded a meager living for those who lived upon it. Riches had not sent her to France to serve Queen Mary; respect for her father’s memory was all that had been left her.

“It’s my understanding that my father was stalwart and brave, and courteous at all times,” she informed him.

“Ah, how sharp that dagger,” he murmured.

“What is the matter with you, Laird Rowan? This is a day of great joy. A young queen has returned to claim her birthright. Look around you. People are happy.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “So far.”

“Beware. Your words hold a hint of what might sound traitorous to other ears,” she informed him coolly.

“My point,” he said softly, “is that this Scotland is a far different place than the Scotland she left so long ago—indeed, even from the Scotland you left behind. But if you think I am less than pleased to see Mary here, you are mistaken. It is my entire aim to keep Mary on her throne. I, too, believe a man—or a woman—must worship God from the heart and as seems best, not turning upon details that have so torn apart the Catholic Church and the people of this country. Men of power write policy and interpret words on paper, yet it is the innocents who so often die because of that simple fact. I speak bluntly and boldly—that is my way. I will always be here to guard your Mary—even against herself, if need be. You, my dear, are young, with the idealistic perceptions of youth. May God guard you, as well.”

“I hope He will start by helping me avoid the boors of my own country,” she returned, her chin high.

“With one so charming and dedicated as yourself, dear Lady Gwenyth, how could our Maker not oblige?”

Kneeing her horse, she hurried forward, keeping her place within Mary’s vanguard, but putting some distance between herself and the rough Laird Rowan. She heard his soft laughter follow her and shivered. He had managed to cast a pall over what should have been a day of unalloyed triumph. Why, she wondered, did she let his subtle byplay disturb her so deeply?

She turned her horse back toward him. Riding was one of her finer talents, and she wasn’t averse to displaying her abilities as she swerved her mount, covered the distance she’d put between them, then swerved once again and rode up beside him.

“You know nothing,” she informed him heatedly. “You do not know Mary. She was sent to France as a child and given a husband. And she was a friend, the best friend possible, to him. The poor king was sickly from the beginning, but Mary remained a dear and loyal friend—and wife. In the end, despite the wretched conditions of the sickroom, she never once wavered. She cared for him until his death, then mourned his loss with dignity. And as the world changed around her, she kept that dignity. As diplomats and courtiers from all over the world came with petitions and suggestions for her next marriage, she weighed her options, including what was best for Scotland, with deep concern and a full understanding of the statesmanship demanded by her position. How dare you doubt her?” she demanded.

This time, he didn’t laugh. Instead, his eyes softened. “If she has the power to earn such passionate praise from one such as yourself, my lady, then there must be deep resources indeed beneath her lovely and noble appearance. May you always be so certain in all things,” he said at last, softly.

“Why should not one be certain, sir?” she inquired.

“Because the wind is quick to change.”

“And do you, like the wind, change so easily, Laird Rowan?”

He studied her for a moment, almost fondly, as if he had stumbled upon a curious child. “The wind will blow, and it will bend the great trees in the forest, whether I wish it were so or not,” he said. “When there is a storm brewing, ’tis best to take heed. The bough that does not bend will break.”

“That,” she said, “is the problem with the Scots.”

“You are a Scot,” he reminded her.

“Yes. And I have seen far too often how easily great lords can be bribed to one point of view or another.”

He looked ahead. Whether she liked him or not, the man had a fine profile: strong, clean-shaven chin; high, broad cheekbones; sharp eyes; and a wide brow. Perhaps it was his appearance that allowed him to be so patronizing without fear of reprisal.

“There are things I know, my lady, and things I know about my people. They are superstitious. They believe in evil. They believe in God—and they believe in the devil.”

“Don’t you?”

He looked at her again. “I believe in God, because it comforts me to do so. And if there is good, then truly there must be evil. Does it matter to a greater being—one so great as God—if a man believes in one interpretation of His word or another? I’m afraid He does not whisper His true wisdom into my ears.”

“How amazing. From your behavior, one would assume He did,” she retorted.

He smiled slightly. “I have seen a great deal of tragedy and misery—sad old women condemned to the flames as witches, great men meeting the same fate for their convictions. What do I believe in? Compromise. And compromise, I propose, is what the queen must do.”

“Compromise—or bow down?” she inquired, trying not to allow the heat she felt into her words.

“Compromise,” he assured her.

Then it was he who moved on. Perhaps he had decided he was wasting his wisdom on a mere lady-in-waiting, that he no longer found her amusing….

“I shall tell the queen about you,” she murmured to herself, more worried than she cared to admit about the doubts he had planted in her mind. The barons here were indeed powerful men, men whose loyalty Mary needed to retain.

Lord Rowan, she convinced herself as the day wore on, was a man to be watched, to be wary of. There was no reason to expect anything but the best for both Scotland, and the queen. The nobles had come to greet her with full hearts, as had the common folk. The very air seemed alive with hope and happiness. And why not? Mary offered youth mixed with wisdom, an eagerness to be home and pleasure at the sight of her people—whether her heart was inwardly breaking or not.

Some things were true. Though Gwenyth did not believe her own beloved homeland was barbarous or uncouth, it could not be denied that the landscape was rough, wild and often dangerous. As could the Scottish nobles.

No, this was not France, but it was a land with much to offer its lovely queen.

AS THEY CONTINUED ALONG the road to Edinburgh, Rowan was pleased to see that prudence was evident in the populace’s welcome to the queen. People lined the streets, many among them costumed and employed to both welcome and amuse. Fifty men were dressed as Moors, turbaned, wearing ballooned trousers of yellow taffeta, and bowing the procession along as if offering tremendous riches. Four young maidens representing the virtues greeted the queen from atop a hastily erected stage. A child walked up shyly to present Queen Mary with a Bible and Psalter.

There had been heated arguments before the queen’s arrival, with several of the Protestant lords desirous of presenting an effigy of a burning priest for Mary’s viewing. Many among their own number had furiously decried such an idea. There were some subtle hints as they rode past that this was no longer a Catholic country: burning effigies of biblical sons who had worshiped false idols, and a slight hint in the child’s speech that the queen should embrace the religion of her country. But none of it was heavy-handed, allowing the new queen to ignore what she might not like. And the festive tenor of the day was real; people were ready and willing to welcome back such a beautiful monarch.

As Rowan carefully watched the activity surrounding the queen, he found his eyes frequently straying to her maid, the Lady Gwenyth, whose eyes were fixed upon the queen and those around her. The young woman was strikingly beautiful. In fact, all the queen’s attendants were attractive—something, he mused, that the queen probably allowed because she herself was so regal and lovely, so she did not fear the glory of those around her. It was something that spoke well of her, Rowan thought.

But what was it about Lady Gwenyth that drew him so strongly? Certainly she was lovely, but the same could be said of many women. There was something, he realized, about her speech and her eyes that he found most provocative. A fire simmered within her, a fire to match the color of her hair—not really brown, not really blond, streaked with shades of red. And her eyes, a tempestuous mix of green, brown and gold. She wasn’t as tall as the queen, but as even few men equaled Mary’s height, it was not surprising that her maids were all diminutive in comparison. Still, Gwenyth was of a respectable height, perhaps five-foot-six. She gave her loyalty, and did so fiercely. She had shown herself ready and able to argue her point lucidly and with an effective command of language. She had a sharp wit. He smiled, thinking that when she disdained someone, she would do it with a cutting edge. When she hated someone, it would be with fervor. And when she loved, it would be with a passion and depth that could not be questioned or mistrusted.

A strange searing pain suddenly tore at his heart. Strange, for he had long ago accepted the tragedy of his own situation. He could not forget, would never truly heal. Yet he could not deny the carnal reality of his nature, though he allowed it free rein only when circumstances conspired to provide an acceptable mixture of time, place and partner. This girl in the queen’s retinue was never to be taken lightly, and therefore…

Never to be taken at all.

He should keep his distance, yet he smiled as he recalled the joys of debating with her. She was far too amusing. Far too tempting.

Her eyes met his suddenly, and she didn’t flush or look away. She gazed at him instead with defiance. Understandable, given that he had dared to express his wariness about this homecoming. A homecoming that, he was forced to admit, was going exceptionally well, at least so far. He was surprised to find himself the first to look away, and to cover his feelings, he rode forward, nearer to James Stewart. Nearer to Queen Mary. The people continued to boisterously cheer her, but….

He would be the last to deny that there were fanatics in Scotland, and he was relieved when the queen’s party at last reached Holyrood Palace.

Perhaps appearances could be trusted and the queen was going to be accepted and loved—maybe even revered and adored. He didn’t understand the deep feeling of dread that had settled over him when the day dawned for the young queen to arrive. Lord James, her half brother and, in essence, ruler of Scotland, had seemed pleased enough that his sister had been bound for home. Having accompanied James to France, Rowan had met her briefly already. She had been everything a country could long for in a monarch—elegant, poised and tactful. She was also beautiful, and her unusual height simply added to the impressiveness of her appearance. He simply found it worrying that she had spent virtually her entire life in France.

He himself had nothing against the French. He found their nobles’ more than occasional slurs against the Scots to be amusing—and almost complimentary. Yes, theirs was a remote and rugged landscape. Yes, there were those among the Highland lords who were not only rightfully proud but fierce. They were not a dandified people, were fighters more often than courtiers, but their hearts were strong and true. And he knew that when his people accepted a belief into their hearts, they did it without stinting. Such was the case now, with the Protestant cause.

And the queen was Catholic.

He laid no blame upon her for that; in fact, he admired her loyalty. She had spent her life living with the God of the Catholic Church. She was constant in her beliefs. Throughout the years of his own life, he had seen far too much brutality committed in the name of religion.

Elizabeth now held the throne of England, herself a Protestant monarch. But though the Queen of England was judicious, not one to order executions lightly, she was not afraid of doing what must be done. Against the odds, she had created a realm in which no one needed to die for choosing to worship in his own way.

But here in Scotland, it had been only a year since the fever of Protestantism had taken hold, and Rowan knew his people. What they embraced, they embraced with abandon. He could not help but dread what was to come.

When they at last arrived at Holyrood Palace, he felt some of his forebodings ease away. Holyrood was magnificent. Set outside the city walls of Edinburgh, it was surrounded by magnificent vistas and delightful forests. Holyrood had been established as a tower, but in the days of the queen’s father, it had been extended and improved upon in the style of the Scottish Renaissance. French masons had been brought in to do much of the work. Rowan thought proudly that Holyrood rivaled many a continental palace. Both Holyrood itself and the neighboring abbey had been burnt seventeen years earlier by the English, but in the years since, everything had been lovingly restored.

He saw Queen Mary’s face as they arrived, and was glad to see her obvious pleasure at the sight of her new home as Scotland’s queen. She had been nothing since her arrival but tactful and diplomatic, but he himself had played the game of diplomacy for many a year, and he knew that her delight in seeing the palace was genuine.

Rowan noticed that Gwenyth was anxiously watching the queen, as well, and he diverted his attention from the monarch and directed it toward the maid.

The Lady Gwenyth was an enigma. It was evident in her words and manner that she did not take her position in the queen’s court lightly; she seemed to feel something for Mary that was precious even among kings and queens: real friendship. And yet here she was clearly no fool. She had not been gone long from the country of her birth and, though she loved Scotland dearly, she could not help but be aware, as the queen who had been so long away could not be, of the dangers here, perhaps more aware than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

The steward and servants assembled in the courtyard as Queen Mary and her noble entourage arrived, activity tempered by awe as the household staff awaited a greeting from their queen and mistress. Mary did not fail them. Once again, Rowan had to admire her charisma and character, for she remained every inch a queen while offering courtesy and even affection. Lord James took charge of his half sister, leaving the others of lesser station to discover their quarters for themselves, leading to a state of some confusion. He heard several among the French escort muttering with relief that the palace seemed to offer surprisingly comfortable accommodation, while clearly lamenting the lack of art, music and poetry in this sadly uncultured land.

“Rowan?”

He heard his name familiarly spoken and turned. Laird James Stewart was at his sister’s side, glancing Rowan’s way in question. Rowan nodded, aware that the northwest tower had been chosen for the establishment of the royal apartments, and that his help was being requested.

“Ladies of the court, if you will…” he suggested.

With a nod to one of the housekeepers, he led Mary’s ladies toward their apartments. There was a great deal of tittering and whispering in French as he walked ahead. He shook his head, amazed that they weren’t knowledgeable enough to realize that many Scottish nobles were well-versed in the language. He was well aware that they were discussing his attire and his derriere, and speculating as to what might lie beneath the wool of his kilt.

He chafed a bit at their company, his interest lying far more in the manner with which Mary conducted herself with both staff and statesmen. He was unsure whether even James was aware of these first hours as the queen was duly greeted and settled in Holyrood.

As he showed the ladies the magnificence of the palace, and pointed out where the queen’s quarters, as well as their own, would be, the Marys flirted with him. They were lovely and charming, cheerful and full of life—and yet, he knew, as chaste as their young mistress now was in her widowhood. One day these ladies would marry well, with the approval of their families, but for now they simply longed to have fun, as was natural at their age. He did his best to be gallant to them in turn.

There was, however, one among their group who did not laugh and certainly did not flirt. She simply followed and listened in silence. The Lady Gwenyth.

He knew she was watching him, and he had to secretly smile at that knowledge, even though he knew she was wary, that she did not trust him. He was quite certain she did not give a damn what might lie beneath his kilt. She disliked him intensely—or thought she did.

“Are you happy with your situation?” he asked her at last, having shown the women the way to their chambers. “Will you be able to discover your way?” The hallways were long, the layout complicated, though certainly nothing when compared with some of the grander palaces of France. Still, they were arriving in a new home and might feel some confusion.

“I believe we can manage just fine on our own,” she assured him.

He had noticed that she seemed to hold herself slightly apart from the other women, which was, perhaps, natural. She hadn’t left Scotland as a child, as so many sons and daughters of Scotland had, the bonds with France having been long established. Many noble sons of Scotland attended school in France. Trade between the two countries flourished.

She stared at him now through narrowed eyes, her expression deeply distrustful. And yet so beautiful, as well, he could not help but think. She was well-spoken, certainly well-read and, despite her words, he believed that she shared his concerns for the queen’s safety. At the same time, despite her intelligence and dagger-sharp wit, there was an air of naiveté about her.

He stepped away from her now, nodding curtly in acknowledgment of what amounted to a dismissal. Striding the length of the hall, anxious to return to James and the new queen, he found himself pausing to look out a window.

From his vantage point, he could see the great stone edifice of Edinburgh Castle. The sky was as gray as the castle’s stone, the recent weather having been wet and cold, and mist, a common enough occurrence, had settled around the stark battlements. There was a tinge of mauve in the gray, lovely to one who knew this as home. Foreboding, perhaps, for those accustomed to blue skies. He shifted his gaze to the Royal Mile, a fine thoroughfare offering shops that sold goods from around the world. Holyrood was a fine palace, Edinburgh a fine city. Surely the queen would find much to love here and in her people, people who had cheered for her arrival.

Perhaps he was being too defensive, worrying for naught. And yet…He knew that many members of Queen Mary’s French escort mocked this land. It was cold, they said. Hard, like the unyielding, rugged rock of Edinburgh Castle. French shops were finer, French palaces far more beautiful—even if French laborers had worked on Holyrood.

Rowan forced himself to look on his city as others might see it. In the gray, foreboding day, the castle rose like a bleak and terrible fortress. The people themselves were as rough and hard.

Rock versus marble. Wool versus silk.

He gritted his teeth. They simply needed time. Time would bring the changes the young queen and her entourage needed.

The ties Scotland had shared with France were long-lived and strong. And yet….

No alliance was founded purely on friendship. Both the Scots and the French had fought the English, and that shared enmity had made them allies, even friends. But friendship was so often only on the surface, easily broken when more selfish needs intruded. And therein lay the dilemma.

What really simmered beneath the deeper waters of that alliance now that the French-raised queen had come home?

CHAPTER TWO

“I AM EXHAUSTED,” MARY sighed, throwing herself onto the bed in her chamber. She stared up at the ceiling and laughed softly, sounding for a moment like any young woman. “Actually, this is quite lovely,” she said, surveying the room. She rolled to stare at Gwenyth, who was standing nearby. “It is, isn’t it?” she whispered, and Gwenyth knew she was missing France.

“It is magnificent,” Gwenyth assured her.

Mary leaned back on the bed again. “Crowns,” she murmured. “They do weigh heavily.”

“My queen—” Gwenyth began.

Mary rose to a sitting position, shaking her head. “For now, I beg of you, please drop the formality. We are alone, and I must trust in you. You’ve not been gone so long from here, and you’re not after any reward, nor testing me, weighing me. Use my given name, as if we were nothing more than a pair of friends. For you truly are my friend, and that is what I need now.”

“Mary, I believe your arrival here was a complete success. Your people are delighted to have their young and beautiful queen returned.”

She shook her head. “These people seem so forbidding”

“They’re…” Gwenyth paused, not sure what to say. She shrugged. “They’re forbidding,” she agreed. She hesitated, then went on. “It’s due to John Knox and the way they have embraced their church.”

“Right. They can’t follow the English, heaven forbid, but they don’t want to believe in the old religion, either, so they must have their own church.” She sighed, then patted the side of the richly canopied bed to urge Gwenyth to join her. As soon as Gwenyth sat down, Mary gave her a fierce hug. “It’s cold here, have you felt it?”

“There’s a lovely fire burning,” Gwenyth said.

“You’re right. And it will be warming soon. This is so strange a place, though. In France, while my husband lived, there was such a marvelous sense of security in being queen. And here…it is as if I am being tested because I am queen.”

“You must remember, your half brother, Lord James, has been the power behind the throne since the death of your mother. Time has passed, and things have changed. But now, both lords and churchmen have gathered to welcome you home. You must remember that. Everything is going to be wonderful.”

“Is it?”

Mary rose and walked toward the fire to warm her hands. For a moment she looked lost, even tragic. “If only…” Then she steeled her shoulders and swung around. “I have barely arrived, we’re all dressed in the grays and blacks of our mourning, and do you know what was on the mind of those great and noble lords who greeted us and rode as our escort here to the palace?”

“What?”

“My remarriage.”

Gwenyth smiled. “My dear queen—”

“Friends, we are friends here tonight.”

“Mary, I’m sorry to say this, for I know your heart and know that you were deeply grieved by the death of your husband, but from the instant the king of France died, nobles and monarchs across our world were discussing your next marriage. You are a queen, and your alliances, both personal and political, can change the face of history. This is a sad truth to face when the soul is in pain, but it is the way of the world.”

“I am a commodity,” Mary said softly.

“You are a queen.”

Again, Mary paced. “You are right, I know. I scarcely had time to bury my husband with the honor that was his due before I, too, realized my future had to be decided. Today, when we stepped ashore, I had to wonder if perhaps I made a grave error. There were offers, you know, offers from Catholic royal houses. There is no right step to take, I fear. Were I to marry into such a house, I would turn Scotland against me. But here, today, I learned the minds of these men. They want me to choose one of their number as consort, a man who honors all that is Scottish, who bleeds pure Scottish blood, who will compensate for what they consider the disadvantage of my upbringing. Oh, Gwen, what is the matter with the people? How can I be anything less than true to what I have been taught all my life, to what I have read, to God as I know Him?”

“No one expects that of you.”

Mary shook her head in denial, and Gwenyth thought that, sadly, she was most likely right.

“They expect everything of me. But I am not an inconstant queen. I will honor and worship God as I see fit. But…” She turned away, lowering her head.

“But?” Gwenyth started to smile. She thought she had seen something in Mary’s face.

“Well…” Mary inhaled deeply. “I loved him, but my late husband…he was never well.”

“There was no romance,” Gwenyth whispered.

Mary spun and rushed back to the bed. “Am I terrible? I have seen someone who…well, I was newly widowed when I saw him. He is a distant cousin, in fact.” She looked at Gwenyth mischievously. “He is most handsome.”

“Who is he?”

“Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley.”

“Ah,” Gwenyth murmured, looking away, thinking that Mary deserved some genuine happiness. She had spent her life doing what was expected of her, performing her duty. To hear that whisper of excitement in her voice was, Gwenyth thought, most gratifying.

Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, was, like Mary, a grandchild of Margaret Tudor, the sister of the late English king, Henry VIII. Gwenyth did not know him so much as know of him. He was living in England currently, a so-called guest of Queen Elizabeth, due to what that monarch considered his Scottish father’s sin in standing against her. His mother was an English peeress, however, so his stay could not properly be considered incarceration.

Gwenyth had met Lord Darnley only briefly, at the same time as the queen, when he had come to bring condolences on the death of King Francis. He was indeed handsome, as Mary had said, and he could be charming. Other nobles, she knew—especially many of the Highlanders—did not like him. He was fond of drinking, gambling and all manner of debauchery. He had Stewart blood, but he had English blood, as well. Then again, so did many of the Scottish nobility.

Gwenyth looked at Mary then with a definite sense of unease, though happily Mary did not take that look to mean personal dissatisfaction with the one man who seemed to appeal to her on a sensual level.

“Don’t look at me like that! Why may I not enjoy the fact that I have seen a man who is both acceptable in the minds of many and appealing? Fear not, I have not lost my senses. I am in mourning, and despite everything, I did love Francis, dearly, though it was…it was perhaps more a deep and tender friendship than a passionate love. I remain in mourning, and I will not be rash in my decisions. I will be careful, and I will be listening to my advisors. No decision can be made for some time. I am still considering negotiations with Don Carlos of Spain and other foreign princes. My greatest strength lies in where I will cast my die. I shall not forget that for me, even more so than most, marriage is a matter political alliance, not love.”

“Mary, I know you will do what is right, but you certainly must allow yourself to dream of what will make you happy, as well,” Gwenyth said.

Mary, so tall and elegant in her robe trimmed with fur, looked at her with wide, beautiful dark eyes. “I am frightened,” she whispered. “Frightened that no matter how hard I try to do the right thing, I cannot make my people happy.”

“Oh, Mary! You must not feel so. It was a wonderful homecoming. And you’re going to be a wonderful queen. You are a wonderful queen.”

“It is so…so different here.”

“These are your people. They love you.”

“They’re so…” Mary paused, then offered a smile. “So Scottish.”

“True, this is not France. But, Mary, it is a wonderful country, filled with wonderful people. Who do outsiders look to when they seek military assistance? They offer rich rewards to entice Scotsmen to fight in their battles, because we are fierce and strong and loyal.”

“But I seek peace.”

“Of course. But peace is often obtained through strength.”

“Not in Scotland.”

“Ah, Mary. That’s not true, not always. Think back. We are a country because of the determination and courage of men such as William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, your own ancestor. Scotsmen are also poets and scientists. They go to schools elsewhere, and they learn about the world. You have only to love the Scots and they will love you.”

Mary let out a soft sigh. “I pray…yes, I pray. And I thank you—my friend. My four Marys are most dear to me, but they do not know this land as you know it. They, like me, have been away too long. Tonight I dearly needed your friendship and understanding, and you have not disappointed me.”

“Mary, anyone who knows you is aware that you have a great heart, that you are both kind and wise. You don’t need me. You need only to believe in yourself and to be willing to understand your own people.”

“I intend to try. For I intend to be a great queen.” Mary hesitated. “Greater, even,” she said softly, “than my cousin who sits on the throne of England.”

A chill snaked along Gwenyth’s spine. Elizabeth was proving to be a very powerful monarch. She was ten years older than Mary and had been queen of England for several years now. And she was Mary’s opponent in the political arena, for when Mary Tudor had died, the French royalty had declared Mary Stewart not just Queen of Scotland and of France, but Queen of England and Ireland, as well, considering Elizabeth to be Henry’s bastard and therefore lacking the right to rule.

Politics could be a very dangerous game. Gwenyth knew Mary did not wish to oust her cousin from the throne, but she was loyal to her religion. It had become quite apparent that not only did the English not wish to have anyone other than their own Queen Bess, they wanted nothing to do with a Catholic monarch, and therein lay the seeds of potential—or perhaps inevitable—conflict.

Throughout the centuries, wars with England had torn Scotland apart. None wished to have more bloodshed to be forced upon them by the English, yet every alliance was like a dagger in the heart of some other nation. The English warily watched Scotland’s friendship with the French, and the Spanish watched them all, so they watched the Spanish in turn. Such concerns would have a crucial impact on Mary’s future marriage. She could bring an ally to their cause—and create a wellspring of enemies, as well.

As if reading Gwenyth’s thoughts, Mary said softly, “I do believe it will be best if I marry within this realm in time. And he is good looking, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Lord Darnley.”

“Ah, yes.”

Mary narrowed her eyes in amusement. “I gather you think someone else is also handsome? I believe I know of whom you speak.”

“You do?”

“Laird Rowan.”

Gwenyth started, and could feel her spine stiffening. “He is very rude.”

“He’s blunt, and as you’re the one teaching me about my people, you should know that such a laird, well-versed in both battle and politics, will be blunt. He is the epitome of a perfect Scottish nobleman.”

“In that case, why don’t you have your eye on Laird Rowan?”

“Now you are joking with me, are you not?”

Gwenyth frowned. “I’m not joking at all.”

Mary laughed. “Well, then, I suppose rumor is not as rife as one would imagine.”

“Mary, please, whatever are you talking about?”

“My father had thirteen recognized bastards, you know. Some of them lovely people, actually. Like my dear brother James,” she said, and Gwenyth wondered if she heard a touch of bitterness in the queen’s voice.

There had been talk at one time of having James Stewart legitimized, though it had come to nothing in the end.

Gwenyth’s frown deepened. “He isn’t one of your father’s bastards, is he?” she asked incredulously.

Mary let out a small dry laugh. “No. Though he is the son of one of my father’s bastards. His mother was the first issue of one of my father’s first dalliances.”

“Is this true—or rumor?” Gwenyth asked.

“Don’t be so concerned, my dear friend, or you will furrow terrible wrinkles into your brow. Laird Rowan’s lineage is considered quite acceptable, I assure you. However, to find one’s nephew to be attractive is quite another. Besides, he is married.”

“Oh,” Gwenyth murmured.

“Quite sad, really. He is married to Lady Catherine of Brechman.”

“The daughter of the Lord of Brechman—but…those are English lands,” Gwenyth said, realizing that she was about to hear the truth about Laird Rowan’s mysteriously tragic past.

“Yes. And how do I know all this and you do not?” Mary inquired, seemingly pleased to be able to share what she knew. “I suppose, in the last months, I have had quite a lot of communication with my brother James, and he has told me the story. It’s terribly sad. They were madly in love, and Rowan boldly declared himself to the lady’s father. They were granted permission for the union by both my brother, James, and Queen Elizabeth. She became with child immediately, but shortly before the babe was due to be born, she was in a coach accident on her father’s lands. She was badly injured and fell into a raging fever. The child did not survive, and Lady Catherine has not been of sound mind since, nor has her health ever improved. She is now quite insane and lives in Laird Rowan’s castle in the Highlands, where she is tended by a nurse and the Laird’s steward, who is both kind and loyal. She is very frail and, most fear, soon for the grave.”